


Catch and release

by p1erregasly



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 2019 season summer break, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, pierre is sad and charles is trying his best, there's a bit of fluff here as well i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1erregasly/pseuds/p1erregasly
Summary: For every successful overtake there was a crash, for every podium there were dozens of comments berating him online. The highs were high – he pulled back, leaving his hands to rest on Pierre’s trembling shoulders – but the lows were so much lower.or; demotion angst
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48





	Catch and release

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegreatgasly (londonbird)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonbird/gifts), [coastcitytourism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/gifts).

> Dedicated to Anna, because you're one of my best Formula 1 friends and probably even one of my best friends in general. Thank you for always listening to me, never judging me and being a great friend on the whole.  
Dedicated to coastcitytourism, because you always provide us with the best Charles/Pierre fics. You're easily one of my favourite authors here, so this is to say thank you for your hard work and amazing fics! 
> 
> Thank you (other) Anna for putting up with me taking like half a year to write this and proofreading it. You made this fic so much better with your amazing advice.

The heat of the day had long ebbed into a comforting warmth by the time Charles arrived at Nice Côte d’Azur Airport. He knew they could’ve easily called a helicopter to fly Pierre to Monte Carlo, but there was something about the outskirts of Nice, away from skyscrapers and streets crawling with people, that made coming here a therapeutic experience. Besides, they’d been doing this ever since Charles got his driver’s licence three years ago. It had always been the ridiculously early flight as well, even back when they didn’t need to worry about attracting attention to themselves. Maybe it was because night-time came as a reward of sorts to them, every year on the fifth day of the summer break; a constant with the car in which Charles came to pick up Pierre as the only variable. This time it was his Ferrari 488 Pista. 

Usually, Charles arrived early to watch the dawn set dimmed rays over the ocean while he waited for Pierre to emerge from the airport’s main glass building. It was the other way around now, with Pierre bathing in the copper hues on the sidewalk as Charles pulled into the street. The rising sun shone a path on the asphalt, disrupted only by Pierre’s shadow. Charles followed it until he was standing right behind him. Pierre had yet to acknowledge his presence, and Charles’ hands hovered in the air between them until a soft sigh and a deflation in Pierre’s posture told him everything he needed to know. He wrapped his arms around Pierre’s torso in a gentle hug that still allowed them space to breathe, but Pierre took Charles’ hands in his own and closed the gap between them, his hair brushing against Charles’ collar bone. 

“I’m tired.”

They were simple words, but Charles understood the meaning behind them. This wasn’t the kind of tired that just needed a good night’s sleep. It was the kind of tired that needed so much more; the kind he’d never seen from Pierre, not until now. He knew it was nothing but a shield for pain. I am sorry. The three words made their way into Charles’ head, and they were on the tip of his tongue when he realised Pierre wouldn’t want to hear them right now. They were empty, full of pity, so he swallowed them, took all of his feelings and sent them out into the world as three different ones. 

“I love you.” 

Charles gently tugged at Pierre’s shoulders, turning him around so they were facing each other, waited for Pierre’s tell-tale smile to extend to his eyes and reach into his soul. Instead, Pierre greeted him with a faint curve of his lips and a defeated look that was barely hidden behind his sunglasses. Charles pulled Pierre close again, one hand on his shoulder blade and one on the back of his head. He put his chin on Pierre’s shoulder and watched the mellow blues and pinks that blurred together above the ocean. 

His hand pressed into the fabric of Pierre’s navy-blue shirt – a painful reminder of where he was right now in comparison to before the summer break – as he helped him into the passenger seat. Pierre’s eyes were blank, staring straight ahead, and he didn’t resist when Charles reached over to fasten the red safety harness across his lap. Charles carefully manoeuvred Pierre’s right arm and leg out of the way before he closed the door, letting his fingers trail the _rosso scuderia_ and _blu america_ finish of the Pista as he moved around the front of the car to sit down behind the steering wheel. The dark leather spread the sun’s energy to his hands, sending a rush of warmth from his fingertips all the way to where his toes tapped against the pedals. 

During the forty-minute drive back to his apartment, Charles imagined he was driving around a track. It would never feel the same as an actual race, but one red light became five in his mind and the paddle shifters were familiar underneath his touch. At the sight of orange, he stepped on the clutch and pumped the accelerator, waiting for emerald to clash with the red of his car and set him free. 

When they reached the road that meandered down to Monaco, the sun was fully above the horizon. Charles turned his head as if to check his right mirror, stealing a glance at Pierre to see the shadows of trees and lamp posts dance upon his tan complexion. His eyes were closed, head tilted towards the open window so the wind ruffled his hair, the corners of his mouth lifted up ever so slightly. Charles allowed himself a smile as he seamlessly navigated the route: first the main road down the mountain, then the busy streets of Monte Carlo, taking a detour for the sole purpose of driving across _Circuit de Monaco_’s start-finish. 

“Don’t open your eyes,” he told Pierre as they sped down the straight, slowing down last-minute to take a sharp right. “Now tell me where we are.”

The answer was confident and without hesitation: “_Sainte Devote_.” 

“Perfect – as always.” 

The wind was cool against his face, but hearing the relief and exhilaration in Pierre’s voice filled him with warmth. It was a sort of warmth the sun couldn’t provide him with; one that lingered until they were back at his apartment, where the curtains dulled the sun’s orange glow to a soft ivory. 

Pierre settled down in the living room, the leather of the couch creamy against the brilliant white of his shorts, and Charles was relieved to see his lips bear the semblance of a smile. Charles opened the door to the balcony, a light breeze moving in to meet his feet.

“Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got a Red Bull in the fridge.”

The lack of an answer was in stark contrast to the sounds outside; cars approaching the traffic lights underneath the balcony, footsteps on the sidewalk, trees rustling in the wind. Charles waited with his fingers readily wrapped around the can of Red Bull while the wall clock ticked like the timer on a bomb. Each tick dragged him further to a realisation and he turned around, dread creeping over him like a frigid chill. He’d made a mistake.

“Pierre…” Charles tried, but Pierre’s eyes were steady on the wall behind Charles, and the little bit of warmth he’d managed to fill them with during the car ride was gone. His words didn’t make to the other side of the room. Instead, they hung in the space between them before sinking like cool air, heavy with grief and regret. “Pierre, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. There was a quiver in Pierre’s voice and his eyes were out of focus behind a thin sheet of tears. Charles resisted the urge to fling the fridge shut; the lingering feeling of where he’d held the can of Red Bull in his hand as cold as the tiles underneath his feet as he made his way back to the couch. He tried to make eye contact but Pierre was miles away. There were continents between them that couldn’t be bridged by a simple, reassuring smile and it hit Charles the way waves crashed onto the shore on a stormy autumn day. It didn’t matter where he stood; on the beach right where water met land or on the highest point in Monte Carlo, miles above the sea. His feet couldn’t help but get wet. 

Silence filled the room like the delayed moment before a falling glass shatters on the floor and all Charles could do was watch as Pierre fell apart in front of him. Pierre’s hands trembled as he brought them up to his face, a sharp inhale the tell-tale sign everything was about to come crashing down. A tear slid from his eyes, followed by another one, and another one, until a steady stream of tears flowed its way down his cheeks, creating trails along his clenched jaw. Charles reached out in an attempt to make Pierre look at him, but all he accomplished was making Pierre turn away, staring at the widows as if his view wasn’t obstructed by the closed curtains. The lack of eye contact hurt worse than any physical pain Charles had ever been put through, so he pulled Pierre closer and wrapped his arms around him. _Please_. But Pierre didn’t melt into the embrace. Instead, Charles could feel his chest rise and fall in a strained, irregular pattern. Shaky hands curling into fists around the red fabric of Charles’ shirt urged his mind into a frantic search. He was desperate for a memory – _please, anything_ – that would help him right now; any time in the past where Pierre was upset and Charles managed to make him feel better. Nothing. 

Instead, he was flooded with memories of their previous summers, where on a morning like this they would run around the streets of Monte Carlo without their jackets on, narrowly avoiding tourists as they weaved through the Casino gardens. No pressure, no teams. Just the two of them racing each other from the back of _les Jardins de la Petite Afrique_ all the way though the gardens and streets until they reached the fountain right behind the Casino. Pierre won every race in those first few years, and Charles didn’t mind. With other people he was competitive, the overwhelming desire to win often resulting in anger and frustration when things didn’t go his way. Yet, when he’d reach their made-up finish and found Pierre already sat on the edge of the fountain, bright smile visible even from across the street, any disappointment was overshadowed by pure joy. Once Charles finally grew taller than Pierre and his legs carried him towards victory across those sandy paths more often than not, Pierre suggested they replace the garden races with video games. What followed were nights filled with snacks while Pierre absolutely annihilated Charles at FIFA, hysterical laughs muffled into pillows or each other’s chests so they didn’t wake up his neighbours. Formula one could give him speed, fame, adrenaline surges so strong they left him on the brink of passing out, but it could never give him that. For every successful overtake there was a crash, for every podium there were dozens of comments berating him online. The highs were high – he pulled back, leaving his hands to rest on Pierre’s trembling shoulders – but the lows were so much lower.

“How about we get you changed into something warmer, does that sound good?” 

There was no reaction in the form of a ‘yes’ or a nod, but Pierre allowed Charles to pull him up from the couch. Now that he was standing, Pierre was shaking even more than before, and Charles suspected one of the reasons he’d been so tense was to hide the now obvious tremors that now wrecked his body. Muscles strained underneath his grip as he put his hand on Pierre’s back to guide him to the bedroom one step at a time, where Charles helped him sit down on the side of the bed. The curtains flowed steadily, sending radiating ripples down on Pierre’s face, and Charles trailed his fingers across one of the streams of light that broke the tan skin. Even with everything that was going on, he didn’t think Pierre had ever looked more beautiful. 

Charles replaced the clothes Pierre was wearing with some more comfortable ones, moving as quickly as possible so Pierre’s skin wasn’t exposed to the cool air for long. When he was done, he gently combed Pierre’s ruffled hair back into place.

“Better?” 

“Yeah.” 

He pulled back the white sheets and positioned himself comfortably on the double bed. When Pierre joined him silently, eyes closed and breathing slowed down, Charles wished he could extend the summer break just so they could stay like this forever. And even though Pierre was not where he wanted to be right now, as long as they had each other everything was going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I put a ridiculous amount of time and effort into this fic, so I really hope it translated well and that you guys enjoyed reading this. Feedback is welcome as always.


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